Huntress

Come, blunt your spear with us,
our pace is hot
and our bare heels
in the heel-prints--
we stand tense--do you see--
are you already beaten
by the chase?

We lead the pace
for the wind on the hills,
the low hill is spattered
with loose earth--
our feet cut into the crust
as with spears.

We climbed the ploughed land,
dragged the seed from the clefts,
broke the clods with our heels,
whirled with a parched cry
into the woods:

Can you come,
can you come,
can you follow the hound trail,
can you trample the hot froth?

Spring up--sway forward--
follow the quickest one,
aye, though you leave the trail
and drop exhausted at our feet.